[ All these thoughts unspoken, these histories unguessed could write their own song; and maybe he's got a few personal secrets to enhance the arrangement. Maybe after tonight it will even seem possible to him to hear the whole thing recorded (or at least roughly demoed). But that's the magic in it, to make both immortals and mortals who should really know better still feel like maybe what you don't know or can't change or haven't said won't be, this time, so very insurmountable. At least not enough to kill the music.
Right now Birdie's every utterance is a tactile tune, sending notes tripping over his skin like fingertips. She wobbles, she laughs and he could almost beam -- he pretty much does, for a sec, lips tellingly arched -- until she pleads. Then the sound that comes out of him is too desperate for smiling by half. It's uncontrived, even awkward and pained, the groan you might produce from a quick gut-punch. But he gives it full rumbling throat before it's smothered against her cunt.
Pressing as close as he can, Fet's tongue rolls over her at last. Insistent, yet still slow; their position's not ideal for much else, but that's the welcome trade-off for his worship of the moment. How many times has he wished for this, fucking fantasized about it, come home from their goofy little run-ins and jerked off like a teenager just thinking how it'd feel to burrow between her legs? Finally he's here, secret folds succulent in his mouth. So wet his licks have got to run long and broad, just to sop up all the spill.
And of course he keeps his grip, braces an arm at her back and clamps her in place. In this universe he may not be a knight, but the one where he lets Birdie fall? Doesn't exist. ]
no subject
Right now Birdie's every utterance is a tactile tune, sending notes tripping over his skin like fingertips. She wobbles, she laughs and he could almost beam -- he pretty much does, for a sec, lips tellingly arched -- until she pleads. Then the sound that comes out of him is too desperate for smiling by half. It's uncontrived, even awkward and pained, the groan you might produce from a quick gut-punch. But he gives it full rumbling throat before it's smothered against her cunt.
Pressing as close as he can, Fet's tongue rolls over her at last. Insistent, yet still slow; their position's not ideal for much else, but that's the welcome trade-off for his worship of the moment. How many times has he wished for this, fucking fantasized about it, come home from their goofy little run-ins and jerked off like a teenager just thinking how it'd feel to burrow between her legs? Finally he's here, secret folds succulent in his mouth. So wet his licks have got to run long and broad, just to sop up all the spill.
And of course he keeps his grip, braces an arm at her back and clamps her in place. In this universe he may not be a knight, but the one where he lets Birdie fall? Doesn't exist. ]